


Ningyōtsukai

by Strange and Intoxicating -rsa- (strangeandintoxicating)



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Blood, F/M, Gore, M/M, Multi, Other, PTSD, Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-10 04:53:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7831054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeandintoxicating/pseuds/Strange%20and%20Intoxicating%20-rsa-
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boy king, a puppet on strings. He who controls him controls the world. Sephiroth, though, has other plans. Controlled by Jenova, he was nothing. But with the help of a forgotten God, he can cut the strings... and destroy Shinra with his own hands. (pairings undetermined)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ningyōtsukai
> 
> By: Strange and Intoxicating -rsa-
> 
> Author Notes: As a blanket statement, this story will contain Homosexual/Heterosexual pairings, gore, violence, foul language, and death.
> 
> This story came to my mind a long time ago, though it's only recent that I've actually began thinking about it. I normally hate starting things before finishing other things, but this needed to be written down now. It didn't want to wait. As for its reasons, while I absolutely love stories where Cloud goes back in time and changes things, I always thought it would be fun to try it the other way around, where it's actually Sephiroth who remembers what happened and is given the chance of redemption. Add in some Jenova, Hojo, and the Wutai War, well... it'll be fun, if nothing else. I'm really looking forward to this, actually.
> 
> Disclaimer: I, Strange and Intoxicating -rsa-, do not own, think I own, or will ever own Final Fantasy VII or its compilation. I don't even want to know what I'd do with it if I did.

 

* * *

_Death is a release from the impressions of the senses, and from desires that make us their puppets, and from the vagaries of the mind, and from the hard service of the flesh._

_~Marcus Aurelius_

* * *

 

In the old legends of Wutai, a boy king was born from the loins of a demon. He drank her life-blood from her teet, a sweet milk only a mother could provide, and grew strong. His blood pumped of Gaia and of beast, and yet he was human, the only hint of his origin the blood on his mouth and the bright eyes of dying stars. This child was the only monster who could destroy them, bring their empire to their knees, to turn their crops to ash and their rivers to blood. Bahamut, the villagers named it in reverence and fear.

Bahamut, the boy king, the demon king.

Leviathan protected them from all. She was their Goddess and offered a life of bountiful harvests, the swollen bellies of their women, and the health of their children. All she required in payment was the boy king's head presented before her, an offering of the divine, when he came to extract his pound of flesh. And he would come, for She had wronged the demon and no demon would bare their neck to a God.

And come, he did. He bathed their soil in blood, slashed babies from their mother's wombs, and burned their crops until the ash fell like a blanket of powder snow. He locked the Goddess in his mother's blood for the eternal slumber, only to take pleasure in her pain.

Sephiroth could have laughed, had he the strength and the will to move. Those stories Genesis filled his head with, what use were they where he was? Where he would stay for all eternity? The fairytale of the boy king was of little use here, where there was no light, no dark, only the endless sea of nothing. He knew there should have been pain, as Cloud did an awful amount of damage in the last battle, but more than anything Sephiroth was weary. While she couldn't reach him here, hidden in the lifestream away from her cells, it was still so cold.

Occasionally, the collective voice of the Cetra rang through his senses and he would curl up in the tiniest recesses of his mind to hide like a child, like he had when he was four and wanted to stay away from Hojo's needles and experiments. It was worse with the Cetra, however. This was his mind torn to pieces. This was lifestream exacting its revenge for a pretty girl with a blank stare and bloody pink dress.

Sometimes, he wondered, if the few minutes of sunshine on his skin was worth the intense pain of being killed over and over again. Was the ability to breathe, the feel of supple leather hugging him in an embrace, the blood pumping through his veins for that short moment worth the Planet, worth angering the Cetra, worth his own life?

_You've been dead since Nibelheim. You have no life._

Sephiroth would have blinked, had he the eyes required for such movement. Had he a mouth, he could have responded, too.  _The lifestream seems to have a sense of humor,_ Sephiroth thought as he continued to drift. It was true; his body was not his own, mind not his own when Jenova was near, that much was certain. He had given her complete control, once upon a time in a little village at the foothills of Mt. Nibel. Anything after that he deserved.

_Keep it up and you'll sound like Vincent Valentine._

He continued to drift, wishing for something more than the blankness, wishing the voice of the lifestream would come back, even if its only desire was to taunt and laugh at his foolish mistakes. What had it been that sent his mind into the abyss of Nibelheim? What had it been?

_Don't you remember, boy king?_

Sephiroth was perplexed; he was not the boy king. It was a fairytale, something to tell little boys and girls before bed or in Sephiroth's case, in the middle of a ditch to occupy his mind from the three bloated and decimated bodies stinking next to him. He shouldn't have needed a fairytale to stop his panic, his fear. Still it was just a story.

The Wutaians were too superstitious; Hojo's God was science and he was its priest.

Sephiroth was the sacrificial lamb.

One of the worst parts of being segregated from the rest of the lifestream was the loneliness. He had grown up alone, his only friends the other experiments and his books. It had taken years to open up to Genesis and Angeal, and then Zack Fair. Friendship was still more often found in the comforting embrace of his leather chair and a musty, decrepit book he'd read over and over again. Still those three... they had been his connections to humanity, his friends.

He missed them, more than he cared to admit to himself. The curtain was up, the cast assembled before him, the stage dotted in flowers. If he thought about it long enough, it reminded him of the final showing of  _Loveless_  Genesis dragged him to, before the fateful disaster in the training room, before their friendship began to wither and die. Before either turned into a monster.

And, Sephiroth regretted. More than anything, he regretted. It wasn't a feeling he was well acquainted with since he allowed Jenova to take him by the hand into the madness. At first, it was uncomfortable to accept that he, no matter how far he had descended into her embrace, it was still his hands. He hadn't felt that way since Wutai, after he murdered scores of men and shed their blood like water from the heavens. There hadn't been regret in the beginning, but every night their mouths would scream in his dreams and even Hojo's concoction of pills did nothing to combat it.

Angeal had explained once it was Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but Sephiroth scoffed. While he understood his men to have these problems, and fought with the President to get the adequate medical care his men needed and more than earned, he didn't need it. He was fine, he was strong, he was Shinra's prize lamb. All he needed to feel better was Masamune and a good book. He was not broken, for he was the General and a warrior.

 _The boy king,_ the cryptic voice of the lifestream said again.  _Sephiroth, Sephiroth. It seems you don't understand me. You do not understand the tale. You don't understand_ _ **your**_ _tale._

Sephiroth would have scoffed, had he a mouth. After being murdered three times, his tale was as clear as the Costa del Sol ocean—die, die, die again. Always controlled by Jenova, always drowning in her hatred and anger and  _fear_  of humans. What else was there to his tale; like the stories Genesis tried to drown him in, there was no happy ending for the monster at the end of the book. It died bloody and alone and the good guys won. Cloud won, every time.

Sephiroth was okay with that ending in the way of it ending Jenova. It broke her and Sephiroth would be free until her cells invaded his mind again.

And she would, because  _Hojo_ made sure when he  _made_  Sephiroth that she would control him.

_If you want your own life, then just accept what I'm offering._

"And what kind of offer is that?" Sephiroth felt his mouth (a real mouth, one with muscles and teeth and by Holy, he could even feel the words on his lips, words he'd made himself.) Still, there was nothing to see and nothing to hear other than the lifestream's response.

_An offer for revenge._

"Not interested." Was the voice even the lifestream? It didn't feel like Jenova, but that wasn't particularly the best way of judging the character of things talking inside his head. "Going after Strife is pointless and  _I don't want to_." He didn't like the kid; he had spunk and courage, but that didn't change the fact that it wasn't fun to get run through by a six foot Buster sword.

_It's not fun to get run through by a seven foot Masamune, either._

Sephiroth conceded. It really wasn't. "And what can I do about that?"

_In the Wutai War you were baptized with the name 'Demon' on the alters of blood. In Nibelheim, too. Let's not forget Shinra Headquarters or the Ancient in her ancestor's Crystal City. You know of blood, and you know of Masamune's destruction._

"And your point?" It felt weird to be able to speak and hear when he couldn't see. The feeling of his mouth was a comfort, though he couldn't feel anything else.

_Perhaps it's time you freed yourself from them. I can offer you the power you need, the abilities you seek. You can destroy her._

Panic struck Sephiroth; an offer. How foolish could he be. A voice in nothingness offering him freedom... The last time he'd accepted an offer of power he'd given his control over to the alien bitch in his head. "No. I won't become your pawn."

_You don't understand who I am and what I'm offering. I'm giving you the chance to right the wrongs, fix and meld this broken planet._

"Why would I want to?"

_You were planning on abandoning Shinra before Nibelheim and finally grew the spine to turn your back on a company killing this Planet. I'm offering you the chance to turn back time, to return to when you could still destroy them. Save the Planet, save yourself. It sounds like a good deal, boy king._

"I'm not a damn boy king!" Sephiroth snarled. It felt  _good_  to be able to make that noise, to feel it rumble in his throat. Yes, he had a body, no matter how disjointed it felt. He had a body...

Sephiroth relaxed his mind and felt out with his power. Years of fine detail to the curve of his spine and the feeling of each finger thanks to his sword training allowed Sephiroth to feel through the nothing for the body he knew was there. A curl of a toe, a shake of the wrist, a phantom breath that took in no air—it was something. He wasn't gone, not completely. Not yet.

The voice, however, did not stop speaking simply because Sephiroth could feel his body. It wouldn't allow him the moment of pleasure in realizing his body was still whole and he was in control.

_You aren't, that's quite true. But you're so disgustingly like me that maybe, just maybe, the story was written for the both of us._

"Bahamut?" Sephiroth said, a feeling of wonder creeping into his voice, despite his attempts to cover it. While he didn't have time to believe in gods and goddesses of Wutai, it didn't stop him from knowing of the summons whose essences were crystallized in Mako. However they were created, they existed and Bahamut was the dragon king. He'd only seen the fierce beast once, against him in the middle of the Northern Crater. That had been an experience not worth repeating.

 _Perhaps you do have a brain of you own_.

"I don't make deals with false gods," Sephiroth countered, though there was something holding him back... a little part of him want to hear what the summon wanted to say. It was the same little part of him that fought against Jenova's pull and allowed Cloud to deliver the final blow. It was also the same part of him screaming against the rest of him, which wanted nothing to do with whatever revenge Bahamut wanted. This half-existence was better than what awaited him when Jenova got her claws sunk into him again.

_What would you say if, by siding with me, I can protect you from her?_

"I'd say I'm not..." Sephiroth trailed off and stepped forward into the abyss. There was solid under his feet, now. Floating for so long, it took a moment to create equilibrium, despite it being the lifestream. Senses worked in mysterious ways. "You couldn't. Her cells run in my blood and nothing can change that."

Bahamut snorted, or as close to snorting as a disembodied voice could and stated pompously,  _I am a God and she's nothing but a parasite. She's beneath me. Guarding your mind from her would be easier than a walk in a park._

"If that park was in the middle of the swamp in the Northern Crater, I think I'll pass." Sephiroth took another step forward, knees nearly buckling below him.  _Maybe, just maybe, I can walk toward light. There may be something here, something that I can use to get Bahamut to leave me alone,_ Sephiroth thought as he pushed himself forward, the toe of his boot to the back of his other.

_What if I gave you the chance to save your friends?_

Genesis... and Angeal, before the madness. They were his only friends. And even Zack, who'd wormed his way into Sephiroth's office and permanently planted himself on the couch. When he'd heard of Zack's death from Cloud's broken mind, he'd thought of nothing at all. When he was killed the first time, it hit him. He couldn't say it was as raw as Angeal (Genesis had been easier to swallow since it was Genesis's own madness which allowed Jenova to plant herself in Sephiroth's head and there would always be a twinge of hatred in his gut about his closest friend) but Zack's death was certainly a blow.

He even killed the Cetra girl Zack had been so fond of.

_What did I say about guilt? Valentine was difficult enough to deal with and I refuse to do it again; his guilt over your mother made me sick._

Sephiroth stopped and his foot hung in the air before he moved it back to its prior position. "He felt guilt over Jenova?" Why would Valentine, someone who had helped Strife kill him the second time round, mourn Jenova?

 _There isn't enough time in the lifestream to even begin, but no. Not Jenova. Maybe if you take the offer I'll tell you more,_ there was slyness to Bahamut's voice and while he did hold all the cards, Sephiroth wouldn't give quite that easily.

"I'm not interested in your petty game." Yet, Sephiroth knew it was a lie. He was interested, very much interested...

_This is no petty game. I'm giving you the chance to right things, to finally be free of influence-_

"Except for your own," Sephiroth said as he continued his hasty footwork.

_I'm not asking for anything unreasonable. We want the same thing, you and I. And while I do not have the mortal body to do so, you do. End Shinra, alter this dying planet's fate, and I'll give you want you want..._

_Freedom._

* * *

Sephiroth opened his eyes and found himself in a place familiar to him, his home so very long ago.

The Shinra labs.

He screamed.

 


	2. Chapter 2

There was a tube down his throat. Sephiroth could feel the plastic slithering down his esophagus, the plastic biting against the soft flesh of his throat. It was something that he had taken for granted so many years ago, in the prison that was Hojo's labs...

The ability to feel.

There was something tying his wrists down to the metal table, and from the strength, he knew they were the  **good**  cuffs, the ones that Hojo would use if he was in a happy. These there the ones that, though strong adamantaimai, were at least laced with a little animal fur to make the bite on his skin a little less painful.

Oh, and how he could  _feel_. He could feel the blood pumping in his ears, the smell of alcohol and bleach they scrubbed the floors with, even the clinical steel under him, the kind of steel that was so easy to clean, but Sephiroth always knew what he sat on and what was below. There was blood and gore, the kind that stuck to the surface like a grease. How was it that this dream could be so realistic that even the damned table below him felt real? He was dead, deader than anything Gaia had ever shit on before... yet... but... but here he was.

What was going on?

Sephiroth screamed, because there was nothing else that he could do, as the plastic made talking (or even thinking, because how long had it been since he had a tube down his throat, and there were no tubes in the hell that was nothingness) absolutely impossible. All he could do was let out painted, guttural noises. He was like a limp, kicked dog. Oh, what Strife would say if he could see him now, shackled to a fucking table like a common animal, like a beaten and whipped dog.

_Remember that he very well knows the feeling._

Sephiroth strained against the shackles, trying to pull against the little voice in his mind. It shouldn't have been there. Nothing should have been there. In the nothingness, he was free... all he wanted was to be left alone, not hear another monster inside of his head.

 _I've already told you, you and I... we are more alike than you would think._  Bahamut laughed inside Sephiroth's head, and he did not like it. No, he did not like it one bit.

 **Put me back, now.**  Sephiroth noticed that when he looked around the room it was like looking through a hazy fog. It was like he was missing parts of his eyes, which made little sense to him. He had perfect eyesight, ever since his birth. He was perfect. He didn't have shitty, poor eyesight. Why was everything so unfocused?

 _I won't be putting you anywhere. You **owe**  me._ It was difficult to know what Bahamut would look like, particularly since the beast had been in dragon form, breathing fire upon him last time he had seen it, but Sephiroth had conjured a boy, no larger than a starved orphan of maybe ten. It was the only thing he could imagine that would be so malicious. As he shut his eyes tight (because the plastic choking him reminded him of times when he was a child in the labs again, and it was difficult enough to survive it once, he couldn't be subjected to it again) he tried to imagine what this little shit would look like.

Big blue eyes, blond hair sticking up every which way, a pointed nose that stuck up ever so slightly, and of course it would be Strife who would bring misery upon him. The little brat couldn't just accept that he had won three times now, that he had been so decimated that even the thought of the Buster Sword made Sephiroth remember the feeling of being gutted like a fish in a Wutaian market.

The image in his mind's eye smirked, and yes... It certainly was Cloud Strife, though in a much more docile frame. Still, of course he would do this to himself.

 _You really are as bad as Vincent Valentine._  It was strange hearing such a deep voice reverberating from such a small body.

Sephiroth tried not to choke. One of the worst things that could happen was to vomit while the tubes were down his throat; he had done it so many times as a child, hoping one day that the scientists would let him drown in his own sick. Of course, Hojo would have never permitted it... but it had been a fantasy, a dream of escape.

**This is cruel, even for the Planet.**

_Well, I am not the planet._  The boy was surrounded in the darkness that Sephiroth had known so well.  _But rather than fight it, Let's... enjoy our time together. I want you to fix things, make it so that the planet doesn't crumble to pieces... Do that, and you live._ Bahamut's eyes hardened.  _Fail, and I will watch your destruction through every chasm of this Planet. Cloud Strife has no problem with killing you for a fourth, and fifth, or a thousandth time._

Sephiroth believed it. If there was one thing on the Planet the he knew, was Cloud Strife would always be there, Buster Sword in hand.

It hit him worse than the antiseptically clean smell.

The Buster Sword.

Angeal's sword, before passing it to Zack, who in turn passed it to Cloud. How fitting that the weapon of his best friend would gut him over and over again. After what Sephiroth had done, betraying his friends, not being with them in their time of need, unable to break the collar around his neck... Of course it would be Angeal to do him in, in the end.

Perhaps it would have been more fitting for it to have been Genesis, but the irony was not lost on Sephiroth.

He tried to laugh, but the tube made it more than a little difficult.

_You have lost your mind._

Sephiroth felt his body wracked with laughter, even though he tried his best not to move his head or throat.  **You are the one who took me from emptiness and shoved me here. You don't have a right to judge.**

And truly, where was 'here'? Sephiroth wondered. It was very obviously the labs, though Sephiroth could not tell when just from his quick look before his panic. Sephiroth slowly opened his eyes, trying to keep his breathing controlled. The bright lights above burned and he tried to raise his hand to block out the light. It was stopped by the thick chain around his wrist.

So, instead, Sephiroth slowly blinked, breathing in rhythm with each blink. It had been a trick he had learned in the labs as a way to calm himself from the overwhelming panic of being unable to move. At least when he was a puppet for Jenova he had never needed to breathe or blink. In fact, with Jenova in his head, it has been almost peaceful in its enveloping security. He let himself fall into the darkness and didn't think of the consequences.

Sephiroth stopped blinking, stilling himself. He twisted his head to the side, only a little, but it took some of the strong light from his eyes. He couldn't hear her.

It was like a tidal wave, every emotion grabbing his skin and pulling from every direction. He had become so accustomed to her feeling, her presence since he was been swaddled in diapers, the the lack of her touch almost made him weep. It was like a phantom limb; despite the length of time the gangrenous hand had been cut off, he could almost feel her in the background, moving and slithering on her own. He knew she wasn't there, but he almost wanted her to be. It was a tumor, a disease... but it was his disease.

It was a slam to the gut, and Sephiroth squeezed his eyes shut. Bahamut, still wearing Cloud Strife's childlike body, sprung forward again.

 _Of course I removed her from your head,_  Bahamut said, as if it was the most obvious thing on the Planet. Of course, to him, it was. He did not understand what it was like to lose part of him, the sweet comforting touch of a mother.  _And she was not your mother, she was an alien bitch who used your skin to destroy the Planet. Don't weep because I made her disappear._

 **I do not weep.**  It was true, but it was difficult to say with certainty. There had been times, particularly during the Wutaian War, where Sephiroth had felt the cold hand of death and destruction and he had wanted to weep, but he had stayed firm... He needed to protect his friends, his comrades. But this was different. It was like he was ripped from his roots. Mother or not, she had been with him through the pain, whispering her love and devotion.

 _Then do not complain that she is gone._  This time, Bahamut frowned, his small face contorting into something ugly.  _She is not completely gone, but she is quiet. She will not be able to reach you, not while I am here. Do not fear, she does not know._

It would have sounded silly but Sephiroth was grateful for those words. He couldn't explain it in words, the feeling he was experiencing.

This was a lot to accept.

Sephiroth tried to open his eyes again, finding it much easier now. Perhaps it was because the sharp light was better that the face of a miniature Cloud Strife staring into his soul, having the absolute gall to remind him of his past failures- his mistakes at everything he had been. It was better than thinking about what was going on and better to rip the tape off. The faster he did it, the easier it would become.

It took a moment for his eyes to focus and Sephiroth could now understand the strange wave before his eyes; he was in a little plastic bubble? No, Sephiroth realised as he blinked again. It was a glass container, one that he has been exposed to Mako through since he was a young child. This was one of the glass containers that fit over the steel gurneys, and since his skin was not boiling, he was not in mako. Things were still fuzzy but slowly coming into focus.

It made things easier, now. He looked at the metal and glass, and searched for what he knew would be- yes. Right there, on the corner of the container. Every year Hojo needed to replace the glass, as there was chance of contamination from the mako. It was εγλ 0000...

It was... He was 23 years old again, practically a newborn babe in comparison. The Wutai War didn't even finish until εγλ 0001... Genesis did not lose his mind until then, dragging Angeal into his death spiral. Sephiroth himself did not give in until 0002, and with it came his first death. Then, five years later, only to be squished like a flea at the bottom of Strife's boot. Then, again... two years later? It was difficult to tell time when you were floating in an abyss. But, Sephiroth had always been good with time, with knowing the passage from one moment to the next.

Sephiroth noticed his hair was wet, and the tell-tale sign of mako in the tube. He must have just finished his mako shower, he surmised. They would open the lock and he would be free, they would remove the cuffs around his wrists and the tube down his throat to help with the breathing. Even a super SOLDIER, he could not breathe in the fiery liquid.

With a whir, the glass cage opened and there were hands on his face, pulling the tubing from his throat with practiced dexterity. It was if he had done this a thousand times. No. He had.

Hojo looked uglier than the last time Sephiroth had seen him, which was a remarkable feet considering the state of decomposition he had been in. The memory had been so lovingly sucked from Cloud Strife's brain during their last fight. It had brought him more than a little satisfaction to see Hojo consumed by himself, like the snake eating its own tail.

 _Except the snake is always reborn,_  Bahamut stated blankly, and it took everything in Sephiroth not to bite out a vocal retort. The last thing the scientist needed was a reason to put him in another Mako bath.

Sephiroth needed out. Now.

Hojo pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, greasy hair pulled into a disarrayed ponytail at the name of his neck. His back, tilted forward like that of a hunchback, reminded Sephiroth of when he was a small child and trying to reach out for a hand to grasp. He had wanted Hojo to pick him up so desperately…

_It must be a curse, to remember everything in your life with such clarity._

**You have no idea.**

"Strange, very strange…" Hojo repeated to himself as he removed the pieces of tubing from Sephiroth's throat. It was amazing, the clarity of that first deep breath, one so large he could have shattered his ribs at the thought.

Sephiroth did not care what Hojo thought was strange, but he knew better. If he wanted to be released, he would need to play the game. Ask the questions Hojo wanted to hear, state the opinions he needed to have stated, and then, with as much dignity and grace he could muster, get out.

"What, sir?" Sephiroth asked, clenching his teeth as Hojo because to unclasp the restraints from his wrists. Sephiroth dug his nails into his hands as to not reach up and snap Hojo's neck like a twig.

_Best not to destroy him yet. We might need him._

Sephiroth bit his tongue, feeling the mako in his blood welling up before the taste of iron assaulted his senses.

Hojo hummed, a lock of black hair escaping his ponytail. How it was so acceptable for Hojo to walk around the Shinra laboratories looking like a homeless vagrant, Sephiroth could not understand. Mad Genius or not, Shinra had always been such a stickler about his policies.

"Your reaction to the shower was a little strange. Perhaps I will need to adjust the dosage and viscosity for our session next month." Hojo smiled. Or, rather, the closest thing to a smile Hojo could produce. It was the promise of more science to slake his thirst. "Any strange side effects? Nausea? Head aches?"

He could have laughed, truly. He had gone in for a mako shower and came out with the memories of his multiple deaths, the end of the world, the slaughter of his closest friends, the slick smell of rotting flesh from Nibelheim. Oh, yes. There were strange side effects.

"None. May I be excused?" Sephiroth deadpanned as he slowly sat up, making sure not to touch his wrists. Any sign of weakness in front of Hojo was an act against humanity. He would not see Sephiroth in discomfort, let alone fear. Certainly not fear.

Hojo made a mark with his black pen on the white paper and made a sound with his nose. Sephiroth could not be sure what the sound meant, but he knew that it was the closest he would receive to an affirmative.

Not taking a moment more, Sephiroth swung his legs down, and the feeling of the cold tile on his feel was like a massage. How long had it been since he had been barefoot, cold ground touching him?

He did not pause to relish the feeling, instead quickly looking around the brightly lit hospital lab for his clothing. He noticed his skin felt itchy, and he knew he would need to bathe the mako off before he would feel normal again. Thankfully, he always brought soft and comfortable clothes for the trip back after a mako shower.

Sephiroth did not dawdle or waste time, throwing the shirt and pants on as quickly as possible. He could feel it like he could feel the air. When he breathed through his mouth, he could even taste the metal.

This was a sensory overload. He knew this, but there was no way to logically explain.

Sephiroth thought to put on his boots, but at the last moment decided there was no point. He did not care that some would see him without shoes, or that Hojo would think it a little odd. His apartment was close enough to the labs, there wouldn't be many who would see him. And either way, no one would dare say anything.

He slung the boots over his shoulder, quickly scanning for Masamune… he, logically, knew that she would not be there. Hojo had implemented a rule against his weapon as a child. But still, after being able to summon her with nothing but a twist of a thought… But no. Now was both the time, he needed to escape. So, without further prompting he skirted the room to the exit, and as quickly as the door opened he was gone.

* * *


End file.
